


Celestial Blade

by GayDemonicDisaster (scrapheapchallenge)



Series: Flaming Nonsense [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Comedy, Demon Summoning, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Summoning Circles, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 23:03:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21346210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapheapchallenge/pseuds/GayDemonicDisaster
Summary: Comedy: Aziraphale has an embarrassing little problem when he gets angry.Inspired by a funny post and requested on the "ineffable husbands" facebook group.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Flaming Nonsense [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658101
Comments: 80
Kudos: 602





	1. a little problem

It was a nuisance, really. Dashed inconvenient if he was perfectly honest. It’s why Aziraphale preferred to go out to restaurants rather than to cook at home. It wasn’t that he wasn’t any good at cooking, on the contrary, he had carefully studied various great chefs around the world over the millennia and held a treasure trove of recipes, all neatly filed away in his meticulous head, but…

All was fine provided he stayed relaxed and enjoyed himself while preparing a delectable meal, but he’d tried once actually learning in a kitchen alongside a volatile French chef (are there any other kind? The world of haute cuisine is pretty cut throat). He found he didn’t have the disposition for a busy working kitchen, not at all.

Tempers flared, people shouted, barged, and wouldn’t hesitate to flick the point of a knife in your direction if you stepped out of line and into their work area. Aziraphale didn’t have the nerves to put up with such a high pressure atmosphere, even if it was only in order to learn how to create the most sublime dishes that he could try to surprise Crowley with later.

The demon, like his serpent aspect, rarely ate, perhaps once a month, and the angel suspected he mostly only did so to keep him company, to make him feel better, or so he wouldn’t feel guilty having a dessert at a restaurant alone. It was less sinful to have a pudding if someone else was as well. He knew fine well that the demon’s lust wasn’t fired by the eating of food, like his own, but by the observation of someone else, well, a certain someone else, ok, _Aziraphale_, consuming it.

Nonetheless, he wanted to learn, so he persevered for a time, until it was clear that it was no longer a good idea.

The point at which he found that out was whilst working as a junior commis-chef in training under aforementioned volatile French Chef in Paris, sometime around the mid 1800s. It was the Chef de partie barging past him for the umpteenth time that evening that did it. Mid way through dicing some carrots, the wickedly sharp blade in the angel’s hand burst into celestial fire as his anger overflowed.

Aziraphale dropped it, startled, and had the presence of mind to flick it across into the sink quenching the fire hopefully before anyone noticed. Not that random gouts of flame were a rarity in a busy kitchen as dishes were flambéed and spitting fat caught alight here and there. He quickly and carefully retrieved the extinguished knife from the soapy water – you soon learn never to leave sharps in the sink lest the groping fingers that reached in there next were your own. Rule 1.

He stood at his work station, uncertain what to do. He had to take a breather but there was no chance of that, they were on a deadline. A faint tinge of just-past-caramelised onions caught his consciousness and he almost swore, having nearly forgotten the pan on the hob next to him, he reached for it just as the bastard Michel the chef de partie barged past him again – he was clearly doing it on purpose. As he did the entire PAN in Aziraphale’s hand lit up with celestial fire. Not the contents, the handle and all. Oh heavens _above_.

He quit that afternoon.

But even when at home he found out, if he became stressed, if something wasn’t going quite right, like when he dropped an entire bag of rice on the floor, grains skittering everywhere across the floorboards, and the fork in his hand burst into flame in exasperation.

Or when writing a particularly vitriolic letter giving some fairly stern words to another book dealer who had gazumped him in a most underhanded fashion on a series of rare tomes that he’d already agreed a deal on with the seller, when his fountain pen caught alight, flaring the paper into ash under it. It was probably for the best, it wasn’t very angelic behaviour to send such a letter anyway, he reconsidered and with a sigh, decided to forgive the terrible human.


	2. Demon in a pickle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BAMF Aziraphale to the rescue

And so it came that one evening, relaxing in the bookshop, Crowley comfortably relaxed in an untidy, angular pile on his sofa, sipping fine wine, that Aziraphale found himself suddenly alone, as the wine glass that had been cradled in Crowley’s elegant fingers smashed to the floor, and the sofa was suddenly, abruptly bereft of demon.

“Crowley…?”

Oh no. Not again.

It had happened a couple of times before, not very often, but he knew what had happened.

The demon had been summoned. Some bastards somewhere had found a book, done a circle, said the words, and summoned the nearest demon. Aziraphale sighed. Poor Crowley would be stuck in a circle somewhere, unable to escape until he complied with the dreadful human’s demands, or he, Aziraphale, turned up and saved him… _again_.

He sighed, and stood over the sofa, laid his hands on the warmth on the cushions where that delicious derriere had so recently rested, and tried to feel for the metaphysical thread that might lead him to wherever the demon had been summoned. Ah, just _there_… He closed his eyes and concentrated.

When he opened his eyes again, he was in a derelict barn. The ancient shreds of hay and straw had been swept from the concrete floor and a detailed circle chalked out, surrounded by a circle of salt for good measure. The runes and sigils were clumsy, but sufficient to do the job. Crowley was standing in the centre, furious, and was yelling at a trio of twenty something boys gathered a few feet away.

“And I’m telling you I can’t do that bloody stuff you dithering idiots! I can’t give you sodding girls to entertain you – just have a bloody shower, wash your underpants once in a decade, have a shave and stop treating women like vending machines that you put kindness coins into until sex falls out for Satan’s sake!” He rolled his golden eyes in exasperation behind his shades before clocking the angel’s appearance. “Oh hi, angel, good to see you, can you deal with this lot? It’s like banging my head against a brick wall. Speaking of walls they made the damn circle so small that if I flinch in the wrong bloody direction I make contact with the barrier and it zaps me like a fucking tazer.”

Aziraphale rounded on the trio of frightened humans, anger rising that they had hurt HIS demon, hands grasping at nothing until he realised he was still wearing his overcoat, and the only thing readily to hand was a compact folding umbrella in one capacious pocket.

He grabbed it, extended it and advanced on the humans, only meaning to threaten them before he heard Crowley yelp and recoil as another bolt of pain coursed through his body from the barrier. Aziraphale saw red, and snapped.

Unable to contain his holy wrath any longer his wings exploded into existence, shining phosphorus bright above his head, his very being glowed and… oh _bother_… the umbrella flared into celestial flame.

Crowley burst into laughter behind him.

Sheer embarrassment combined with his fury and he shouted louder than he’d probably intended in an effort to overcome the acute mortification he was feeling.

“WHAT. THE. _HELL_. DID YOU THINK YOU WERE PLAYING AT, YOU UTTERLY, UTTERLY DESPICABLE HUMANS? MY FRIEND WAS RELAXING ON THE DAMNED SOFA HAVING A NICE EVENING IN WHEN YOU, YOU, YOU… _BASTARDS_ STOLE HIM AWAY!”

He closed in on them, and swung the umbrella meaning only to scare them, to find that it neatly sliced through a wooden upright support beam in the barn, leaving the old wood aflame. He stared at it in shock. The humans noped out and _ran_.

Aziraphale dropped the umbrella in confusion. “Oh.”

Crowley was still weak from laughter, holding his sides, wheezing, in the circle. “…any… any time now, angel, would be good?” he snorted and lost himself again in cackling laughter, tears squeezing from his golden eyes at the ridiculousness of it. Aziraphale looked over at him, annoyed, then remembered the circle. “Oh… OH, of course, dearest…”

He rushed over and started scuffing out the sigils, brushed the salt away and broke the circle. “We had better get out of here” he observed, as the old mouldering hay bales started to catch alight around them. Crowley was gasping, weak with laughter. “You, you’ll have to do it, love, I can’t miracle when I can’t even stop giggling like a fucking maniac” he collapsed against the angel, doubled over and hissing more chuckles out helplessly.

Aziraphale harrumphed, grabbed Crowley round the waist and snapped his fingers. They jolted back to the bookshop and the angel glared at the red wine stain on the carpet. “And you can clean that up too” he grumped shortly at the giggling demon. “Oh love, I can’t, I can’t _breathe_… your _FACE_!”

Aziraphale glowered.  
“A fucking BROLLY”  
The angel pursed his lips  
“an umbrella, a fucking _umbrella_…”  
“Shut up.”

The angel reached out for his wine glass to take a sip.

It burst into flames.

The demon short circuited and collapsed on the floor howling. “Oh angel” he managed. “You’re a fucking menace, but thank you.”


End file.
